The Last Vampire
by cswike
Summary: This is a horror story based upon Christopher Pike's The Last Vampire series. It's pretty clumsy, but I suppose that's a lot easier to see in hindsight... anyway, read and review.


Author's Note: This story is based very heavily upon Christopher Pike's The Last Vampire series. Do not sue me, because I am not going to sell this, and I am not going to claim it was all my own idea. I would also like to say that Mr. Pike is a very successful author, and his books are some of the best I have ever read. GO CHRISTOPHER PIKE!  
  
The Last Vampire  
  
BONG. BONG. BONG. BONG. The witching hour is come. BONG. BONG. BONG. BONG. BONG. The grandfather clock sounded, its deep ring echoing against the quiet night. BONG. BONG. BONG. But the young lady in the house didn't need wakening from its tolls. She was up before the first peal. She had heard sirens. Smiling to herself, she began to prepare a warm welcome for her visitors.  
  
Several police cars pulled up to the driveway, the stench of burning rubber mingling with the screeching of the tires. Policemen and –women jumped out, armed to the teeth with shotguns, Uzis, MP-5s, and various other weapons. The police had no idea what they were facing, but they knew that eleven people had died in the last two months, and each time, any witnesses anywhere in the vicinity (once they had been repeatedly guaranteed protection) reported a lean young woman in the vicinity. Those few who had actually seen her up close were reluctant to describe her, but after being once again repeatedly guaranteed police protection, they still could only mumble, "Her eyes… Her eyes… Like… fire… The eyes…"  
  
The police gathered outside the entrance to the manor, guns up and at the ready, safety catches off, practically twitching with anticipation- and fear. Out of the lead car climbed Special Inspector O'Brien, the detective in charge of this case. He had decided to oversee the confrontation himself, though at the moment he was having second thoughts.  
  
As if the heavily armed police weren't enough, a loud WHUP-WHUP-WHUP was heard tearing through the (formerly) quiet night air. A helicopter popped up on the horizon, its rotors still WHUP-WHUP-WHUPing away madly. As it turned for the house, the stenciled white letters on the side could be read: FBI. It was the FBI's Hostage Rescue Team, usually reserved for potentially dangerous hostage situations. Clad all in black, the HRT dropped down from the similarly pitch-clad Super Stallion chopper, which hovered for a moment, then rose and shot away towards a nearby private airfield, whose owner had been "convinced" to lend it to the Bureau for the night.  
  
The two groups approached the large oaken door. The shotgun-bearing police moved to the front. Taking careful aim, they blew the locks off the door. The HRT surged into the house, with the police close behind, and O'Brien brought up the rear.  
  
They found the house to be deserted upon their first glance, but an evil aura lingered throughout the entrance hall, with its lavish carpeting and rich paintings adorning the walls. A long, elegant staircase, also of oak, led upstairs to the upper levels. Mahogany doors on either side of the teams led into side rooms, of which they could see nothing, not even with their advanced thermal imaging technology. O'Brien called the two parties together for a conference. It was decided to split into several groups of equal size. One group would go through the right doorway. Another would take the left doorway. Finally, two groups would be responsible for the staircase, as well as anything else on that floor. O'Brien reminded them to radio in with any changes, such as a necessary split-up, and finally stated that he would go upstairs with the two upstairs groups.  
  
O'Brien ascended in the eerie silence of the second floor. The air still had a sort of haunted feel, one of malevolence and terror. Upon reaching the top, they found a doorway and… another staircase. Bidding the other group farewell, O'Brien climbed the next staircase, radioing in to the other teams on the way and receiving confirmation from each. This staircase was rather longer than the others; it looked as if it went up four floors, with absolutely no landings except for the one at the top. They were about to ascend when on of the team members realized something: None of the other teams had called in to report having to split up. This made absolutely no sense; it was too much to assume that the paths the others had taken had no forks, no dangers. O'Brien activated his radio and called the other teams. No response was made. He repeated the call several times, but never received a reply.  
  
Now everybody with O'Brien was somewhat worried. They had dealt with battle deaths before, but never a disappearance, where the cause is unknown. They were at the top of the stairs still, and seemed to be trying to work up the nerve to journey on. After several awkward minutes, O'Brien pushed on with an impatient sigh, and the squad followed at a safe distance- they figured that it would be good to stay together, but they were also petrified with fear. They quickly regretted this decision, as a black shadow swooped down upon them all. One member had time enough for a short yell of surprise before he was horribly killed. That short yell was enough to warn O'Brien something was amiss. Turning in mid-stride, he drew his pistol and fired wildly- but it was too late. The team had vanished. O'Brien tried one more call on the radio, then finally accepted that he would never get through. He dropped the radio down the stairwell. Now it was his turn to feel regret, for as it went down, it hit a wall, then bounced to the next wall and so on, making a loud BANG! BANG! BANG! and finally hitting the bottom with a BAM! O'Brien stood frozen. He did not like the complete silence following the noise. What foul thing had his blunder awoken? Despite his terror, O'Brien knew intuitively that he had no choice but to go on. So, felling very horribly alone, he continued down the dark hall.  
  
Walking down the hall in silence, his fear mounted, until it was almost tenfold what he had first experienced. Every sound seemed like the shriek of some unholy thing, every fleeting shadow the warning of a monster's approach. At the end of the hall was yet another staircase. This one, however, was rather spindly, and spiraled sharply upwards. It looked as if it had not been used in a long time. The hall it led up to, however, did look used. It was decorated in ancient Greek style, with statues, columns, and even a working fountain. Plants were everywhere, growing all throughout the room. For them to live still, someone had to be taking care of them. Perhaps the old place was not as deserted as it seemed.  
  
At the end of this hall was… yet another staircase. However, as O'Brien approached this one, ruefully anticipating the climb and wishing he were 10 years younger, it opened. The lower part of the staircase swung upwards, as if on some invisible hinge in midair, and an opening was exposed for all to see. There was not much to see, however; the entrance was pitch-black. It would do no good to turn back, however, as he had gone this far… and from the lack of answer on the other end of the radio, he deduced that there was no one left to help him... nothing to return to. He entered the dark doorway.  
  
The moment he had stepped into the room, the staircase slammed shut behind him, and a fire blazed up in a large fireplace ahead of him. He could now properly see the room he had entered. His immediate impression was of a large study. Books lined the multitude of shelves surrounding him. A fire was lit in the fine hearth, and situated in front of the fire, a large, plush armchair of deep red cloth. It was too large to see anyone that might be sitting in it, but O'Brien knew there was; it was a classical horror-story situation. He was sure the chair's occupant was aware of his presence, and he felt a sudden desire to announce himself. He cleared his throat loudly. "This situation is really quite cliché. I had expected better," he said boldly. A soft laugh emanated from the chair in front of him.  
  
"Welcome, my cynical friend," the voice said in a mocking tone. A figure straightened up from the chair, at first indistinct, then seeming to separate from the silhouette of the chair and take on its own shape. It took O'Brien several seconds to realize that a young woman stood in front of him. She was young, looking not a day over 20, and lean as a beanpole, with bright red hair and green eyes. She was clad in a tight-fitting red tank top and equally tight black leather pants. "But of course I have not introduced myself." Another soft laugh. "And I did not plan to do so. However… You may call me Sita, for purposes of clarity. And you, of course, will be Inspector O'Brien. I have simply been dying to meet you." Another soft laugh-it seemed to be the only laugh she used. As she laughed, her eyes flashed, and for a split second, she appeared drastically changed to O'Brien. Her smile twisted into an expression of darkest evil, and her tank top blazed with stunning intensity. Her head almost seemed to have horns, long, devilish horns- and then the image was gone and Sita stood before him, laughing once more.  
  
"What are you?" he croaked. Sita smiled once more.  
  
"You are not as dim-witted as I had expected. You know enough to grasp that I am not human. Very well, I shall humor you before your stay here must be…terminated. Yes, that is the word; terminated." Another smile; ah, how he longed now to break that smile, to see it vanish from her face in a wave of pain! That mocking, lordly smile she exhibited! "I am a vampire," she stated matter-of-factly, the leering grin still upon her face, as if daring him to ask a question, any question. On his own part, O'Brien was too dumbfounded to say anything at all. At the same time, he felt a little dubious. The idea was ridiculous. Vampires did not exist; it was impossible for it to be so. Yet somehow, the tone in her voice made him feel sure that this was no trick.  
  
"Since we have plenty of time, and since you will not be going anywhere for quite some time (another smirk), I feel quite comfortable in telling you about myself. As I have said, I am a vampire. I was born six thousand years ago, as a poor peasant girl near present-day India. I witnessed the creation of the first vampire. I will not tell you what happened; the details are unimportant. All you must know is that I was given superhuman powers on the fateful day of my initiation. I saw your squad cars approaching from approximately a mile away, and heard them from at least twice that distance. Had the sirens been on, I feel sure that I could have detected you from seven miles. These are not my only powers. Allow me to demonstrate." She turned around and picked up a small stone figure, then turned back to face O'Brien. She gave it to him, bidding him feel its weight and resistance to pressure. She then took it back. "Observe," she commanded. Before O'Brien's disbelieving eyes, she ground the statue into a fine dust. Looking at her arms, O'Brien saw no trace of strain; not a droplet of sweat, not a single vein raised in effort. She then gave him another statue, and told him to throw it at her. When he did, with all of his might (it was relatively light in weight), she dodged out of the way so quickly, it was if she had never been there. A if that wasn't enough, she darted back in front of it, just before it impacted on the wall, and punched it, causing it to break into hundreds of tiny pieces. " And now, for my final demonstration. Shoot me," she commanded. He did, but she did not dodge. The bullet hit her, and she began to bleed. But behold! Before his eyes, the wound was closing up, healing itself! This was impossible! Seeing the amazed look in his eyes, Sita laughed again, that horribly soft, gentle laugh, always mocking him, scorning him! The anger coursing through his veins! And now the soft chuckle became a high, cold laugh practically reeking of evil and malicious intent; a cold, impersonal laugh. And then O'Brien saw this foul individual for what she really was. He could se that she had killed many over the years, killed them so she could drink their blood in order to survive… and not only to survive; there was another reason: she loved it. By this time, she loved the thrill, the exhilaration, of the hunt, and the excitement of making the kill, the pure ecstasy of the act. And now he knew, and he greatly feared for his life, for he could sense that she was hungry. She could have drunk the blood of one of his team members, but she had decided to put them into cold storage. She had not killed any of them, except for the lone man whose yelp had alerted O'Brien. She wanted to drink his blood, to feel the ultimate delight of killing the one who had so recklessly pursued her for two years. And O'Brien feared. He feared his own death, perhaps, but not so much as he feared that this hideous fiend would never be exposed…that she would be free to go on killing… and no one would be the wiser. He must escape, even if he should perish afterwards… he must warn the world. And at that moment, it was as if he could hear the spirits of all her past victims. Now, they whispered. We will distract her. Do it now…  
  
"Now!" O'Brien yelled. He bolted for the doorway, firing wildly over his shoulder as he ran. He could hear her startled cries behind him, and the whispered words of the phantoms. He groped n the dark and found a large button; he pressed it, and the staircase swung back upwards. He ran for his life, back through the Greek shrine, down the spiral staircase, which broke under the stair of a fully grown man running down it. O'Brien tumbled down and hit the floor hard. Behind him, he could hear screeching and the sound of pounding feet- Sita must have shaken the specters. This was sufficient motivation for him to get up and run on in a wild panic.  
  
Either she was playing a game with O'Brien, or the ghosts had done something to her powers, because Sita was not moving as fast as she could have been; still, she was running a little bit faster than the injured O'Brien. He dashed down the large staircase, and just had time to notice that it was white maple before he dashed on, back down the first staircase he had climbed. He reached for the doors and…  
  
He was pounced on. Sita, appearing out of nowhere, jumped on him, hissing and spitting, and looking more like a snake than anything else. "No," she hissed. "I've waited too long…" She straightened up, definitely looking fatigued, but at the same time displaying a triumphant disposition. "Bad boy," she hissed from between her teeth. "You should have behaved, indeed you should… I might have been more merciful…given you a quick death… but now… it will take ages for you to die! I have all the time in the world!"  
  
At those words, a long wail rang throughout the house. Sita backed off O'Brien, whimpering, "No… No… NO!" The awful phantoms burst out of a wall. They did not look sorrowful, as the wail had suggested- they were furious! They descended upon Sita, who fled upstairs, crying, "NO! NO! NO!!!" Seizing his chance, O'Brien leapt to his feet, jerked open the forbidding entrance of oak, and ran down the street, huffing and puffing. He reached a payphone, where he pumped in a quarter- or at least attempted to; his hand was shaking so badly, he kept missing the slot. Finally managing to ram the quarter in, he dialed up his boss, the chief of police for the state. "Chief," he panted, "I need… a meeting… with you… tomorrow. You're not going… to believe what I have… to say." He hung up, and slumped to the floor of the booth, his exhaustion finally winning. And until the next day, he knew no more. 


End file.
